


Pray For Me

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Church Sex, Creampie, Dominance, F/M, God Complex, Oral Sex, Power Play, Priest Imayoshi, Priest Kink, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Roleplay, Rough Sex, This is a whole different kind of daddy kink, Vaginal Fingering, bloody lip, praying, pure filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "Still, with the holy books open wide and the scriptures written in blood, you can't deny yourself the plague that's Imayoshi, moving fast and just as tainted as the cross on top of Calvary. So when he tells you to fall at his feet, you drop down to your knees and try to make amends by apologizing to your sacred heart." Imayoshi plays at being a priest and you're caught in the center of his sacrilegious game.





	Pray For Me

Cool fingertips stroke the delicate line of your jaw and the action is innocent enough but it melts your heart into a plash of dripping radiation. Imayoshi circles you slowly like a feline calculating the best way to attack its prey. His eyes are smoldering, the cincture around his irises a charcoal sketch, veiled inappreciably by the narrow squint of his gaze and the dark lines of his lashes.

“I reckon you've been a bad girl,” he baits, his voice spreading thick like honey. His knuckles glance the nape of your neck and drag over the curve of your shoulder. A chill snakes around the length of your spine and you shiver as Imayoshi's fingers pause just above the valley of your breasts. You know he can feel the steady thrum of your heart, and with a simple touch of his fingertips, it's as if he's stealing your vitality and claiming it as his own. “Tell me why you're here. Confess to me your sins.”

You smooth moisture into your lips and try to find solace in the deepest, most sacred corners of your mind. It's difficult, now that Imayoshi has pored over you with the weight of an unmitigated assessment. Something like skepticism crawls through your veins like a parasite and you're left feeling ill at ease. He stands in front of you, clad in clerical vestments, waiting for a response. You lift your gaze slightly and look up beneath the shadows of your lashes. “I'm frightened, Father.”

Imayoshi's lips curve into a crooked smile but his voice remains polite and affable. “Child, there's much to fear in this world. One can't live a life of sin and scorn what's written in the scriptures without facing punishment. You must show penitence, you must atone for your sins, and turn your back on the devil that you've accepted into your heart. You must fight temptation and accept a different point of view.” Imayoshi reaches out and brushes his fingertips beneath your chin, his eyes glistening like black beetles as he tilts your head back. “Repent, Child. You need to pray for forgiveness and call for God's mercy. If you're sincere, if you ask for clemency in Jesus' name, you will be granted redemption. Once you have been forgiven, you will no longer fear that in which you don't understand.”

You quiver through a convulsive shudder and bow your head in an act of submission. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

A dark chuckle trickles past Imayoshi's lips like an antiquated church bell. You suck your bottom lip between the cool edges of your teeth but Imayoshi is quick to smooth the bitten tissue under his thumb. “That was a wretched attempt, Child. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He raises his arm and braces a hand against your shoulder, and before you can parse his intention, the weight of it pushes you down to the floor. “That's a good girl. Now put your hands together” –he watches you line up your palms with rapt attention– “just like that. Very good.”

You lower your head for the second time and fight to swallow the lump that's formed in the dark of your throat. You close your eyes and focus on the tension building in your knees. The air inside the church is stale and oppressive, perfumed by day-old incense and the decay of withered flowers. The aroma is nearly suffocating and you're finding it hard to breathe.

“Pray to me, Child,” Imayoshi implores. His fingers ghost your scalp as they glide down to your temple, almost as if soothing an invisible ache. “Your Faith will set you free.”

You furrow your brow as you begin to stroke the beads of the rosary around your neck. You trace the centerpiece and stroke the pendant, your fingers finally stilling on the Crucifix. “Father, recently I've been having bad thoughts.” For a brief moment, you choke on the heat expanding in your lungs and track the fever that's undoubtedly become visible along the contours of your cheeks. Your palms are slick with sweat but as soon as the fear that's roiling in your gut ebbs into calm, excitement takes its place. Your brain commits a message to your heart and suddenly, it feels like every organ in your body has become part of a contagion effect, strung as taut as a bowstring and static with white noise.

Imayoshi stands tall before you, his hands folded behind his back and his shoulders square, a polite stance that pretends at superiority, and you might believe the sentiment if not for the wry grin on his lips. “What kind of thoughts have been plaguing you, my child?”

You worry the bottom line of your mouth between your teeth and shake your head. “I don't want to speak them aloud, Father,” you tell him, your voice spreading thin.

“We have all received an invitation a sinner can't refuse,” is Imayoshi's reply, thoughtful and reassuring. “At times, it presents itself to us as salvation but when your time here on earth comes to an end, it's choices such as these that will determine whether you'll be exalted or damned. It is up to you to decide which path you want to walk hereafter. What is it that you want?”

You inhale a deep breath, hoping to calm the turbulence running through your veins. “I want to be blessed, Father. Ultimately, I long to be saved.” You shift your weight discreetly in an attempt to ease the growing discomfort taking over the shape of your knees.

“Then I shall give you my blessing. Come, follow me—I have plans for you.” Imayoshi offers you his hand and waits patiently as instinctive hesitance dissolves into acceptance. You slide your hand into Imayoshi's own, and for some reason, you're no longer worried about your own demons but the one who has clearly branded his mark on your soul.

You walk in time with Imayoshi down a long aisle, each footfall taking you further past rows of pews in the nave. It feels like you're wading through syrup for all the time it seems to take for you to reach the front of the church. However, the spurious minutes that have turned to grains of sand and fallen into the archaic dunes of recent history mean nothing to you as you take in the monumental beauty of the sanctuary. Your eyes rove over the elaborate decorations that surround you, up to the high beams that stretch to the apex of the cathedral ceiling, back down to a hoary lectern stationed to your left. You note the choir stalls that run east to west in the chancel and the gradine, which sits behind the altar and bears the weight of a baroque cross and a collection of ceremony candles. Despite the majority of the architecture and furniture being timeworn and dated, the condition of the church is in exceptional standing considering how long the building has been abandoned. Not to mention, the reredos at the back of the altar still bears notable signs of preservation. Unlike the broken piscina that you're staring at when Imayoshi's smooth voice tugs you out of your reverie and into awareness.

“Come here,” he commands, gesticulating for you to join him at the altar. The cloth that hangs over the front of the platform is thick with a layer of dust and bleached in the places where the sun has played. You step forward and climb several steps, stopping at his side. His palm comes to rest at the base of your spine, his thumb working in small circles against the soft weave of your shirt. A beautiful canopy hangs high above your head and you deign to look at it in spite of Imayoshi's call for your attention.

“It's a remarkable church, isn't it?” he asks, following your line of sight to its distraction.

“It is,” you answer him, lowering your gaze to the broken communion rails leaning against the wall parallel to where you're standing. “Have you been tending to it?”

Imayoshi's mouth bends on an angled slant as he drags his fingers through a layer of taupe-colored dust. “I visit often but keeping house has never been my cup of tea.” He turns to look at you directly and tilts his head as if he's examining you. “Do you believe in divine intervention?”

The question plays like an echo in your ears and you know that somehow, things are about to change. You can feel it in the way the blood flows through your veins and in the steady thrum of your heart. Something is about to break, and at that moment, you want to flee from the abandoned church and its blessed walls. Then, as quickly as the feeling washes through you, it's gone, replaced by the cohesive force of understanding. The need to capitulate to the blasphemer beside you rises to a perpetual high and you almost collapse at his feet for the weight of it. You've never been so at war with anything in your life but you're pressed against the limits of the Galilee sea, and the bones of your contention are lost, the treaty signed.

You close your eyes and exhale a slow breath as you accept the burdens of the cross you bear. “I do, Father,” you finally answer, the metaphysical nails of your submission driving deep into your palms. You open your eyes and the look on Imayoshi's face is indicative of the path you're choosing, the darkness that lists where it will. You swallow what little moisture beads on your tongue and continue: “Please, Father. I need you to cleanse me.”

“Then I will do just that, my child.” Imayoshi says nothing more as he begins removing the vestments that conceal his otherwise bare skin. It takes you by momentary surprise but you remind yourself of who he is, brash and audacious and unscrupulous. You watch him as he carefully folds his glasses in his hand before resting them atop the edge of the altar, his barefaced features as sphinxlike as he is enigmatic.

Imayoshi smirks when he catches you taking in the contours of his body—the muscled ridges of his arms, the hard lines of his abs, and the sharp jut of his hipbones—one part genetic structure and three parts hours upon hours of practice. His sable strands graze the high angles of his cheekbones, his face a smidgen lighter than the rest of his body. You watch the muscles in his body work as he stalks over to you, his shoulders lifting slightly as he stretches himself toward the ceiling. You track the visible shift of sinewy tissue beneath his skin, drawing itself thin over the more conspicuous bones that make up his frame.

“You're going to need more than repentance, love,” he says, his fingers lifting to brush the slope of your jaw. Your body feels feverish, trapped against the irksome confines of your clothing and under layers of sweat-damp skin. “Are you prepared to sacrifice yourself for the assurance of forgiveness? Are you ready to quench your spiritual thirst and hand yourself over to the special pardons given in Confession and Absolution for the sake of your soul's health?”

You bow your head in a slow nod of your concession. “Yes, Father.”

Imayoshi tips your head up and back, his eyes slanted downward to peer at you. “He will read your soul and see your sins, and if your Faith is true, you will touch the hand of God and He will make you clean again.” His dark gaze is investigative and coming closer as he fits the shape of his lips against your own. Your heart hammers in your chest and you involuntarily reach for him, desperate for something to hold onto. You slide your fingers through the unruly strands of his hair and moan when his tongue slides slick warmth across your lips. You shudder and pray for some semblance of control because you're two seconds away from grinding against his bare thigh to ease the pulsing ache that's thrumming through your sex.

“Father,” you whisper, the title shaking apart in your lungs.

You close your eyes and Imayoshi gently lifts your hand away from his scalp. He presses his thumb in against your pulse and when you open your eyes, he's smiling, and you think to yourself that perchance being purified is fruitless because these clandestine meetings are going to be the death of you.

Still, with the holy books open wide and the scriptures written in blood, you can't deny yourself the plague that's Imayoshi, moving fast and just as tainted as the cross on top of Calvary. So when he tells you to fall at his feet, you drop down to your knees and try to make amends by apologizing to your sacred heart.

Imayoshi slides his long fingers through the fall of your hair, and with his opposite hand, he fists the base of his cock. He guides the flushed weight of it to your mouth, pressing its slick head to your lips. He's a patient man today, and it's evident that he's prepared to wait for your compliance but you concede almost immediately, parting your lips for the firm heat of his member. A pearly drop of precome drips onto your tongue and the salt of it spreads out across your papillae. Imayoshi exhales a long breath and rocks his hips forward, unflinching when the edges of your teeth gently graze his torrid flesh as he pushes the boundaries of your breathing.

Imayoshi tightens his hand into a fist and you can feel the strands of your hair draw tight against the line of your scalp and his knuckles brush against the top of your head. He guides you forward and you have to focus on the muscles in your throat to keep from choking.

“That's it, angel,” Imayoshi praises, thrusting in harder and bumping the head of his cock against the back of your throat. The momentum makes you gag and he stills his hips for a brief moment, allowing you to collect yourself as saliva leaks past the corners of your mouth. You inhale through your nose and a strange noise vibrates in your throat. You massage the thick length in your mouth with your tongue as much as the crowded space allows, and after a long moment, Imayoshi's voice rings through your ears.

“There's a night of judgment coming, ____. Don't disappoint me.” He slips his thumb between your lips and presses the pad of it against your cheek at the side of your mouth. It's an unstated request but you know what it means. You carefully slide your wet aperture off of his cock, now glistening with your saliva, swollen and engorged with the blood of his arousal. He tugs you to your feet and kisses you with the passion of a burning violin until every thread of your self-discipline is frayed and torn.

He hands you down your sentence and bodily shoves you against the altar. You stumble and trip over your own feet but the solid structure proves to be a blessing that keeps you from falling. Imayoshi's cool fingers touch the soft of your abdomen and you inhale a sharp breath for the sudden shock of cold that opposes the radiant heat of your skin. He fingers the hem of your shirt before he tugs it up and over your head, the fabric momentarily catching at your hair. He'd given you his demands long before tonight and one of his requests had been that you come dressed in modest clothing. It makes sense, now that you think about it, each chain of his commands has you filling the role of the innocent but desperate congregant. The immediate realization spreads warmth between your thighs, visible on your cotton panties when Imayoshi shucks the soft fabric clinging to your legs.

You shiver but you have no proof that it's for the open air kissing your skin because Imayoshi's dark and inscrutable expression is just as viable a cause for it. You stand stock-still, wearing only your undergarments and a tremble in your knees. You follow Imayoshi's gaze as it sweeps over your body, thirsty and starved, _ravenous._ It strips you out of your clothes and right down to your bones, and you swear that you can feel the disapproving weight of Christ's scrutiny bearing down on your spine.

You cross your arms over your chest but Imayoshi is quick to remove them with a slow shake of his head. He kicks apart your feet and positions himself close to your body. His cock glances the inside of your thigh, leaving a slick stain on your skin. Your heart is like a blister and when Imayoshi ghosts his knuckles over the center of your damp panties, you're cast into the fires of the condemned. You emit a shaky breath and the sound of it has Imayoshi smiling. “Remember, this is your way of sacrifice. You will be baptized and washed in the blood of the lamb.”

You stare deep into Imayoshi's eyes and let his words imbue you with comfort. You lift a shaky arm and coil it around his neck, and the blameless gesture breeds like a trigger to Imayoshi's fingers. He tears aside your panties and slips two digits into your tight heat without a modicum of warning. You gasp your surprise into sound and press yourself into his touch. A wealth of arousal collects on his skin and you can hear it in the slide of his ministrations. Your face grows hot and you can track the blossoming flush along your cheeks as it spreads out to the shape of your ears. You catch the bottom line of your mouth between your teeth and bite down as you simultaneously drag your fingernails down the hard line of Imayoshi's neck.

He growls something that sounds humanistic, animal attraction flowing like red wine between his lips and over your bodies. He pumps his fingers deeper and lowers his head to take a patch of sensitive skin, just above the swell of your breast, between his teeth. The rate of your breathing quickens and you absentmindedly draw him closer, the hand bracing against the back of his neck insistent and tense. Imayoshi chuckles and the low sound of it resonates down to the rapid beat of your heart. When he draws away, he slides the flat of his tongue over the mark he's branded you with and works a third finger into your sex. Your muscles clench around the intrusion and a whimper climbs up the dark of your throat.

“Tell me what you want, Child,” Imayoshi says, his voice spilling like liquid heat.

“I want you, Father,” you tell him, and when you recognize that it's not enough you add: “I want you inside of me.”

“And if that suggests that you've been bribed by perdition? Are you willing to turn your back on the patron saint for something so fleeting?” Imayoshi presses his thumb in against your clit and begins to manipulate the sensitive organ while crooking his fingers against a wall of spongy tissue inside of you.

Your back comes away from the altar and you cry out in pleasure, his touch the chalk that blurs the line between awareness and inattention. “I don't care,” you confess. “I want you. Condemn me, Father, if that's what you need. Just please... _fuck me_.”

Imayoshi slides his fingers free from your body, painfully slow and teasing. His cock is an angry shade that demands attention, leaking and solid, yet, he remains unshakable and calm—and you envy him for it. However, your resentment is allayed by your innermost desires. Your world is spinning on its side and the celestial ceiling is crashing down around you beneath the lunar sway. But it is proverbial that there are certain things which have become customary in Imayoshi's presence, and no matter how apocalyptic and harrowing they seem, you never grow tired of the way they taste.

“You have listened to and believed the demon,” Imayoshi says as he takes your hips in his hands and lifts you up and onto the altar. He tugs your sullied panties down your legs and tosses them aside with an air of disinterest. You can feel your heart thrum against your chest cavity and pulse in the low of your belly, spreading to heat that fizzles out somewhere between your parted thighs. Your clit throbs painfully and when Imayoshi fits himself between your legs and slides you closer to the edge of the church table, you begin to go numb with want. “May Christ have mercy on your soul,” Imayoshi says, pushing forward and sheathing himself in your cunt.

“Kami,” you breathe, reaching out to brace yourself against the delicate curve of his shoulder.

The epithet is a stone that cracks the chambers of Imayoshi's control. He digs his fingers into your hips, gripping hard enough to guarantee future bruises. He holds you like a crucifix and fucks into you with all the spirit of prayer. He slams himself home, each cant of his hips steady as a heartbeat, as dedicated as worship. Nevertheless, there's no careful reserve or cautionary restraint. It's raw and rapacious and rife with rapture. The sweat along the line of his forehead, indicative of his physical devotion, begins to catch in the light that filters through the deserted institution. A bead of perspiration rolls down the smooth column of his throat and you long to lick it away, but he's tearing at his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and your attention segues to the cardinal stain streaking his mouth. You reach out to smear the moisture into his lip but he's quick to wash it away, taking your finger into his mouth with it.

He undulates his hips sharply and your spine curves into a reflexive arc. Imayoshi nips at your finger as you draw it free from his mouth and grip the edge of the altar, your knuckles turning white for the force of it. Something falls off the dusty shrine and hits the floor with a dull thud but the sound of leather-bound material is unmistakable—a second later, a candle topples over and balances precariously at the edge of the pedestal before it joins the Holy book on the floor.

Imayoshi presses his forehead against the forward tilt of your shoulder, the sweat on his brow sticking to the damp of your skin. He releases his hold on your hips to unfasten the clasps of your bra, and when the fabric falls down your arms, he's quick to tease your nipples in turn. He tugs at one turgid peak and pinches the other, his hips moving ceaselessly. His focus is obstinate and his desires are unbridled, a staunch zealot in the art of fucking. He wears the embodiment of a demon and yields the pleasure of a saint, all in the name of lust.

“Say it again,” Imayoshi commands, his voice scraping low in his chest.

You're so lost in the woods of Imayoshi's filthy magnetism that it takes you a moment to parse what he's asking. You wonder if you've missed something that he's said and attempt to frame your lips around a question, but at that moment, Imayoshi drives himself against a sensitive bundle of tissue that flares through your veins and bursts like a kaleidoscope of color behind your eyes. You utter a shrill cry that spells electric provocation and Imayoshi offhandedly smacks the oscillating tissue of your left breast, hard enough to hurt but not without the reward of pleasure.

“Say it,” Imayoshi drawls, the even sibilation of his diction touching on something like danger. It's a test, an evaluation to ascertain your dedication to the religious perjurer between your legs.

“Kami,” you say, and it takes every grain of your concentration to issue the single word. The sin of self-indulgence has lodged itself in your throat and you barely breathe for the gravity of it. But, notwithstanding this, the reward is greater than the effort it takes to put a voice to the title. Imayoshi's stamina prevails and he takes to fucking you like you're the prayer to his salvation. His breath stutters and he begins to pant—his rhythm begins to falter as he overtaxes his physical abilities. You can feel the beat of his heart in the measured thrum pulsing through his cock. It's an unfamiliar sensation but everything about this exchange seems to diverge from the conventional mortality of individual caliber.

“Fuck,” Imayoshi rasps, his breath catching in his throat. “I'm so close.” He returns one hand to your hip and slicks the fingers of his other, his thrusts coming at irregular intervals. He lowers his spit-slick digits to your clit but the gesture is needless considering how wet you've become. Still, he smears his saliva over the hypersensitive organ and begins to manipulate it roughly.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle the whimper that strains in the back of your throat but despite your best efforts, a dry sob breaks past the barrier you've created and into resonance. Your body draws as tight and you have to fight to keep your eyes open as you climb closer to oblivion.

You struggle through the nebulous haze of decent and meet Imayoshi's shadowed gaze. “Please, Kami,” you beg, pleasure spinning out across your skin. You toss your head back and raise your leg to press your heel against the small of Imayoshi's back. You inadvertently pull him closer and when his cock brushes the bounds of your sex, the tension in your body holds him there, squeezing him tight. The hand at your hip tightens, the force of it printing finger-shaped bruises onto your complexion. Imayoshi convulses and tears at the dried blood on his lip as he surrenders to his body's demands.

You rock against his touch as he stains the torrid walls of your sex with viscous ribbons of come. He closes his eyes as he's swept into the undertow of his climax but he continues to work his fingers against your clit until heat rushes through your body with all the violence of a summer storm. The sands of time seem to hang in suspension and an inferno of shifting lights and long leaping shadows dance behind your eyelids. You bless Imayoshi's dedication to detail and follow a shiver down the staircase of your spine as you chase the lightning that branches through your veins.

Imayoshi slides himself free of your body's unrelenting grip with careful deliberation. The emission of his arousal spills from your entrance, chasing the friction of his cock when it leaves you stretched open and shamefully exposed. He slides a finger through the mess and drags the slippery fluid up to your susceptive clit. You lift your head with difficulty and try to blink the shadow of Imayoshi's form into clarity. You're breathing in numbers, counting down the seconds until your heart stops beating. You think, with each encounter, each affair, that Imayoshi can't transcend the last, yet, somehow he always seems to manage.

“You're the real devil,” you manage just before the rasp of your breathing eclipses your ability to speak.

Imayoshi lifts a simple black cassock over his head, shrouding himself in an enigmatic personification that has, with time, become obligatory. He narrows his eyes in an attempt to seek out his glasses, and when he pushes them back onto his face, he has to blink several times to adjust his vision. “You're wrong,” he tells you, smiling in a way that outstrips kindness and replaces it with something sinister. He fastens a clerical collar to his robe, then shakes the inky spill of fringe out of his line of sight.

You pull yourself entirely upright and stretch your arms toward the ceiling. You can feel moisture leaking out of your overworked sex and subtly press your thighs together to conceal the sticky mess. “How am I wrong?” You slide off the altar with forethought, knowing that you're going to be sore and unstable. You locate your bottoms and pluck them up off the floor, your muscles protesting as a dull ache spreads through your body. “You know you're evil, _Father_ ,” you needle, smiling. You lower the fabric and aim your foot at the opening in the material but Imayoshi wraps his arms around your waist, making you jerk in automatic response.

“The very definition of evil is subjective and open to interpretation.” His hair tickles your back as he peppers a trail of kisses up your spine. “There are thousands of explanations for what it means to be evil, and just as many translations, all dating back countless years.” Imayoshi brushes your hair away from your skin and slides his tongue over the nape of your neck. You tremble uncontrollably as his breath cools the sweat on your skin and forgo trying to get dressed. You drop the material in your hand and Imayoshi chuckles against the shell of your ear. “Which means, there's only one way to rationalize your behavior,” he says softly, his lips brushing your cheek as he speaks.

“Oh yeah? What's that?” you ask, amusement creeping into the subdued notes of your tone.

You can feel the shift of Imayoshi's mouth against your skin and the smile on his lips when he whispers into your ear, “I am your God.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
